


pick-me-ups

by calico_groovy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Beach Day, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Not Beta Read, mentions others like kara and the jericrew etc, minor gavin reed redemption hes still stinky though ... literally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calico_groovy/pseuds/calico_groovy
Summary: 4 times Connor has to pick someone up, 1 time he gets picked up, and 1 time he picks someone up in revenge.silly and fluffy with a little romance at the end !
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	pick-me-ups

**Author's Note:**

> :^)

_the doghouse._

Spring in Detroit meant rain, rain, rain.

Connor did not mind the Detroit rain at all. He was actually quite fond of it, when it was not accompanied by the biting freeze of Detroit winter. The kind of rain that misted and brought warm breeze was his favorite, and he was in luck – that’s what was in the forecast for that afternoon, and that is what he was met with when he grabbed his coat, tethered Sumo’s collar, and took off out the door.

It was fair weather, in his opinion. It was still sunny, and the rain was very light. He’d invited Hank, but he’d expressed his confused disdain very plainly on his face and Connor had left him inside.

No matter. Sumo wanted to walk, and so did Connor, and they were content to leave the grump inside. It nearly dissipated altogether and the sun came out in broken waves and made everything fresh and bright and cool. Connor took his time walking Sumo and Sumo was a good boy who kept right at his side.

He went past his usual turnaround point and made for a local dog park. When Sumo realized where they were going, he wagged his tail and pulled ahead a little, eager to grub in the dirt and run free. The misty rain had returned and was sprinkling heavier now, but Connor saw the excitement in the dog’s face and internally compromised that they wouldn’t stay long.

When they got to the park it was still and empty and damp. Sumo tugged on his leash and made for the open grass. Connor smiled and unclipped him and off he took – immediately towards the largest puddle he could find.

Rain, rain, rain, meant mud, mud, mud.

Connor sighed. He knew what Sumo was going to do – but was he going to keep an old spoiled dog from rolling in the mud if he wanted? No. Connor had not been on the planet for a very long amount of time but he was aware that dogs went to mud puddles like humans to sporting events. Nonsensical, ecstatic messes.

He thought Sumo was cuter, though. The dog jumped clear up and back down a few times, watching the puddle intently, and then he fell into it with a roll.

It was still raining. Connor inwardly checked the updated radar and cursed silently to himself. A large swell of rain clouds was headed towards the area, strong and quick. They should really try to get home before they were _both_ soaked.

He called, “Sumo! Come here, boy.”

The dog did not even pretend to consider the command. Sumo was an absolute wreck, but he was _so happy._ He rolled to his heart’s content and then stretched out in the puddle and laid down, panting and smug and content to wallow like a pig. The heavying rain did little to wash the mud away.

Connor sighed. He had stayed on the sidewalk up until then, but Sumo was not going to come by himself and the storm was fast approaching. He could see grey-yellow clouds building over past the neighborhood, and the sun was fading fast.

Connor stepped into the park towards Sumo, and Sumo picked his ears up and tilted his head. He held out the leash, which turned out to be a mistake. When Sumo caught sight of the tether he leapt out of his puddle and danced away, uncharacteristically froggy.

_Spoiled old dog._

“Sumo!” Connor yelled.

Every step he took towards the dog made the dog think it was a chase-game, and the two ended up half-running in circles through the thick mud. Connor had the advantage of endurance, and it was not long before Sumo gave it up. He whumped down in the mud with a dramatic boof and Connor clipped the leash back into place.

“You are not being a good boy,” Connor admonished.

Sumo did not answer.

Connor said, “Let’s go.”

Sumo did not move. The rain had grown from sprinkling to big fat droplets, and like the flip of a switch was on them heavy. Sumo shook out his ears but he was still caked in mud, and now they were _both_ soaking wet, and the dog refused to budge. He was entirely tuckered out.

Connor looked around into space in a moment of defeat and regret and suddenly thought the grump back home very wise. In a single motion, he bent down and scooped Sumo up and held him on his hip like a gigantic slobbering toddler. Sumo, at least, was content with it, and he seemed content the whole way home.

By the time they made it back to their street, the flash storm had once again been replaced with sunshine, but Connor was sopping wet and he was holding a gigantic, muddy sponge. He walked up the drive and stared at the front door, considering. He could see Hank sitting in the chair in the living room with a book.

Through the back door, then. He circled around the house and hoisted Sumo up a little bit. It was awkward, opening the back gate, but he managed. His shoes squelched uncomfortably the entire way. He kept Sumo in his arms. He didn’t want to him to shake in the house or get muddy pawprints everywhere.

“You are going directly into the bath, Sumo,” he scolded.

Sumo huffed on his shoulder, but he didn’t wiggle – not until Connor tried to open the door as discreetly as possible, anyway.

It all happened in slow motion. Literally. Connor analyzed the entire sequence, trying to find a way out of it, but there was only one path forward, and that path was _down_.

He opened the door. He squelched his way inside. Sumo shook in his arms, and sent him completely off balance – mixed with the slippy, muddy shoes, it could only spell disaster. He made eye contact with Hank on the way down.

“Not in my fucking house!” Hank called out, but it was too late.

Connor twisted himself so that he’d land on his back with Sumo held close to make sure the dog didn’t fall and hurt himself. He spun on a wet heel as gracefully as a jack-knifing truck and fell back flat.

_Bang!_

He was looking up at the ceiling from a puddle. Sumo twisted on his chest and kicked off, smearing him in muddy tracks and shaking, sending water and mud to every nearby surface – including Hank’s legs.

“Ugh, Sumo,” he said.

Connor watched him trail the leash away as he walked towards the food bowl, leaving mud in his wake. There was mud everywhere. Across the kitchen cabinets, the chairs, the floor, of course, and – _How the hell did he manage to get it on the ceiling?_

He looked up a little further and saw Hank staring down at him with crossed arms.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Connor?”

_don't even._

Connor raced down the sidewalk with ease, banking left and right and hurdling over obstacles and around people. He kept the suspect in sight – red hat, logo’d work uniform, _what an idiot mistake_.

“He’s headed towards the riverside park,” he said internally, on the connection to Hank’s car.

“Got it,” came the speaker reply.

Hank would meet him around the other side and the suspect would be cornered. All Connor had to do was corral. Like old clockwork.

The suspect kept looking over his shoulder only to find Connor close enough on his heels to bite, and it only slowed him down. A pair of joggers crashed down into the sidewalk. A trashcan was knocked over, sending walkers scurrying and shouting. A hotdog stand was overturned, and Connor leapt over it in a single bound – which actually put him that much closer while the man stumbled and cursed.

From where he was keeping track of the Oldsmobile through the GPS, Hank was nearly exactly where he needed to be – and they burst into the park bustling with summer activity. Over heads and through trees and past the running man he saw the glint of black autobody slide to a halt with an opening door.

The man kept running, and so did Connor.

At the sight of Hank flashing a badge and yelling for him to stop, the man floundered and tried to backtrack – but no luck, Connor was in his way – so he darted off randomly to the side in between trees.

No matter. The man was getting tired, and he was sloppy. Connor could keep up fifty miles-per-hour until his hip joints gave out in a hundred years. He had been very deliberate in his speed, so he picked up the pace.

Hank ran towards the man as well, from the opposite angle. They darted up paths, and the man zig-zagged – he went through trees, around other people, tipped trash receptacles –

He was running towards the river.

He was running towards the river, and no matter Connor’s speed or capability, he couldn’t get a clear path to him. Hank saw his direction, too, and had swerved around them and kept forward, trying to go a longer way around to get ahead and overtook them a few paces. Connor’s thoughts seemed fit to make a mental sticky note to tell Hank all the dieting and exercise paid off.

He had laser focus, though; he hadn’t even blinked once since he’d started the pursuit – and the trees ahead were breaking apart and the passersby thinned. The blue river came into view, just over a short stretch of green.

He calculated the trajectory and prepared himself. He was free to accelerate and tackle before the man could leap into the water, as was surely his intent. He spurred his legs to work harder. He saw Hank just off to his left and a short ways ahead. His gaze narrowed and he started to preconstruct how he’d apprehend the suspect, pull out his cuffs –

And then the suspect halted entirely –

And ran towards _him_.

Connor skidded on his heels abruptly, sliding on the grass, but didn’t have time to move out of the way or even guess what the man was planning. Then there were hands reaching towards his collar – easily dislodged, but causing him to lose his balance and stumble back to catch himself – and then the man tried to swing at him.

Hank stepped in, yelling something like “DPD! Give it _up_ already, Jesus _Christ_ –” out of breath.

The man, though wiry and a hand shorter than Connor, did not seem keen on giving up and had an endurance they hadn’t anticipated. He actually made a swing at _Hank_ , which was not only stupid but fruitless.

Hank grabbed his arm mid swing and wrenched it behind his back, and the man called out, “Hey, I wasn’t even doing anything!”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he said, completely out of breath and dripping sweat in the heat, “Kenneth Doyle, you are under arrest – Jesus _Christ_ – under arrest for the –”

In the second Hank fumbled to grab his cuffs and Connor remained a pace away, the man wriggled free and went back to his assumed path towards the river, making a lunge to dive.

He might have been fast and weaselly, but Connor was faster (and arguably weaselly…er).

Connor _felt_ more than heard the approaching backup sirens and knew that their comrades were mere minutes away, but in mere minutes the man could be god-knows-where on the riverbed, downstream, gone. They were not going to let him escape, not after all that.

At the same time the man lunged, Connor dove forward and so did Hank. It resulted in a tremendous rolling crash of limbs and cursing and crushing, and in the chaos, Connor saw the suspect’s frame haul Hank up by the back of his shirt and roll him away –

Directly over the unrailed riverside wall. He was gone in a second.

“Hank!” he screamed.

A bodiless voice called back, “Fucking damnit, I’m – fine! Get that sonovabitch!”

Connor heard more muffled cursing but obeyed. The man was right under his hands as it was, and he saw red-blue lights just a block up the river at the nearest street. He slammed the man down, perhaps with slight unnecessary force, and cuffed him. He waited until his fellow officers were within a few paces before he left the suspect with them and ran the few steps to the riverside and peered down.

“Hank,” he called. “Are you okay?”

About six feet down there was a maintenance ledge; a narrow concrete walk. Hank sat there with a hand gripping just above his ankle, and he looked pissed. _Pissed_ was a wide category of Hank’s expressions with many forms and degrees of severity, but this was one expression he hadn’t seen before.

It was _seething_. Pure seething.

“Yeah,” he called back, a little less winded, “Fuck. It’s my fucking ankle.”

There were steps some ways down the ledge, but the walkway was too narrow for two people. Connor wouldn’t be able to get down there to help him reach the steps, and he didn’t know if Hank was able to walk there himself. He stared for a moment and found that there was no clear solution. Well, there was, but Hank wouldn’t like it.

Instead of offering an explanation to his plan, he simply laid down on his stomach and reached out his arms.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

Hank stared up at him. Oh, he _really_ didn’t like this.

All the same he did as Connor asked. It took a minute for him to stand, and he could not hide his discomfort or the way he kept weight from his bad leg. Hank grabbed Connor’s shoulders, and Connor grabbed Hank’s, and he hoisted the man up with little grace and lots of disgruntlement. He was rolled into the grass and he scooched himself back from the ledge, and Connor kept to his side and let him catch his breath.

“I’ve already contacted paramedics about the altercation and they should be arriving shortly in an ambulance.”

“Oh, good, I fucking love ambulances.”

They saw their suspect being tucked in the back of a patrol car up on the street. A few people from the tree line watched the commotion. Another officer filled them in on the situation.

She asked, “You alright, Lieutenant?”

Connor thought that seething glare might be sharp enough to cut steel. “ _Peachy_ ,” he all but snarled.

She ducked her head in a quick nod and stepped away, turning her back.

Hank sat up with a wince and kept his leg carefully from the ground. He said, “Alright, let’s get this over with. Give me a hand here, will you?”

Connor looked at where they were situated in the park, and he looked at where the ambulance would pull up on the road. It would be quite a walk, about two blocks’ worth, and Connor didn’t see Hank welcoming a gurney.

He tiptoed on eggshells. “Hank,” he said, “It would perhaps be easier – that is, less jarring to your system if I were to – if you were to abstain from walking to the ambulance yourself.”

Connor did not meet his eyes, but he felt them burning. Yes, definitely sharp enough to cut steel. He was very lucky to have a skeleton made of stronger stuff.

“Connor,” he said, calm, almost lighthearted, and _terrifying_ , “If you try to pick me up, I will throw you through a fucking wall.”

“Of course, sir,” he said.

He was incredibly thankful to be Hank’s friend. He probably wouldn’t have survived that suggestion otherwise.

_little darling._

The boarded-up gas station was small, rotted, and damp.

He was out here alone, not wise by any means, but time was of the essence and he had been nearest when he concluded this was where the hostage was being held. He’d already sent out the mass alert, and backup was coming, but he needed to get in there quick. It was unlikely there would be traffickers present, as they had been detained earlier that day.

Still, he kept a hand on the weapon at his hip as his boots crunched on wet gravel towards the building. It was not very large, and his scans were going a hundred miles per hour trying to detect any signs of life. The front door was half lodged open and it made a nasty scrape when he pulled it the rest of the way.

The middle space was empty. Just a few piles of the remnants of shelving. Dim, grey-washed light. A counter covered in dust – but there, on the ground, footprints in the dirt, muddy and fresh. He highlighted this in in vision for the sake of those he knew were watching under a canopy some miles away on hastily set up monitors, connected directly to his eyes.

A message in his ear: Hank’s voice, crackled through a cheap mic, “Careful.”

Probably just for his own sake, but Connor did not mind being reminded of the team’s distant presence.

“Detroit police,” he called, “Anyone there?”

There – in the back room. A minute shifting of someone’s weight. After he’d scanned the storefront his attention had been focused on the open doorframe behind the counter. He roll-stepped towards it, poised and ready, but his hand lifted from his weapon. The noise had been so small; from a small source.

He stepped around the counter and through the door frame. Time slowed down and everything around him froze. There, in the corner – the hostage. The identification came alongside her face as a direct match.

Lillia Soto, born March, 2035 – Six years old, missing three days.

Missing, until right then.

Connor released the scan and dropped to a crouch. She had wedged herself between a shelving unit and the wall. She looked up at him with wide, hesitant eyes, and her arms were locked firmly around herself. She was cold, and her face was smudged with dirt.

“Hello, Lilly,” he said, “My name is Connor. I’m a police officer. I’ve come to take you home.”

Lilly shrunk deeper into herself in clear mistrust.

Connor certainly did not want to rattle her by reaching out. With a slow hand, he reached under his jacket and unclipped his badge and identification. He held it out for her to examine from a safe distance. He smiled and tilted his head, but he did not force eye contact, and he kept his body language as open and slow as he could manage.

“Are you hurt, Lilly?” he asked.

She shook her head.

The little girl looked from the badge, to him, to his LED – and after a moment, she unwedged herself and shot forward to wrap her hands around his neck. He was displeased to see that she was barefoot. The rain of early fall made it too cold this far north for little girls to be huddled up barefoot in abandoned gas stations.

Connor placed a careful hand on her back and replaced his badge. He slid the heavy uniform jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around her.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” he said, and gave her a moment to prepare before he hoisted her up on a hip. She tucked her head under his chin and held on tight.

Hank, directly into his ear, clear with relief: “Nice work, kid. The trucks can’t get up the hill. You’ll have to bring her down.”

The gas station was tucked in the loop of a disused country road, miles outside of the city suburbs. It sat up on a steep hill. When he’d raced up the hill before, it was slippery and broken from years of sliding earth and rain and flash flooding. The patrol cars and an ambulance were already waiting at the foot of the hill, but it was one way and a mile down. He left the storage room and the gas station altogether and went out into crisp open air.

He was already a decent ways down the road when she finally whispered, “I’m scared.”

He hugged her a little closer, but was unsure what to say beyond, “It’ll be okay. You’re safe now.”

He heard her sniffle and bury her head down low, and she started to cry.

Something gripped tight in his chest and he didn’t know what to do. He kept walking. He didn’t ask out loud; didn’t send a message through the speaker at the tent-setup, but instead sent a message to Hank’s phone:

_She’s crying. I don’t know what to do._

Hank knew small children better than he did.

_Well,_ came the fast reply, _what do you like when you’re upset?_

Connor thought of being so mind numbingly angry in the aftermath of his deviation that he had paced and ranted and yelled until he collapsed on Hank’s couch and the man hugged him close and told him, _“It’ll be okay.”_

He had already tried that, but he tried again. He placed a hand on the back of her head and shushed her, “It’ll be okay.”

The crying didn’t stop. It wasn’t a tantrum by any means, just low and exhausted and scared.

He thought of days when everything was too much. Too much noise, too many people, too much to look at – and he would lay on the cool wood plank floor and invite Sumo to lay across his chest, and he’d put a blanket over his eyes to shut everything out until he was calm.

He didn’t have Sumo or a blanket, but he had the coat. He wished he’d thought to bring his beanie, or wear his hoodie instead. He popped the collar of his jacket so that only Lilly’s eyes could peek out if she wished, and he hoisted her up a little higher to hug her close.

The crying quieted, but did not disappear. Connor felt her snake a little hand from his shoulder to rub at her eyes. His collar was damp from where she pressed her face.

He thought of a mother and child he’d seen at the aquarium. The baby had started to get fussy. His mother hummed softly and sang and bounced him, and he giggled and quieted and the mother smiled. It was one of his favorite clips of everyday life he’d captured.

He thought of resting on the couch with a tablet reading, Hank in the kitchen, humming to himself absentmindedly. He sang under his breath as he cooked, probably not even realizing it, and Connor smiled at the domestic ease and safety.

He thought of dozens and dozens of androids huddled in a dusty church, clinging together with nothing but hope and the clothes on their backs. The anxiety was palpable. Someone unseen had begun to sing, and another hummed, and the anxiety visibly evaporated from people’s shoulders. And he, standing in between two voids, surely looking into the face of death, had been comforted.

He started softly,

_“Here comes the sun, la-da-da-da,_

_Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright,_

_Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter_

_Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here,”_

He had never sung before, but his voice box had no trouble meeting notes. The replication of an accessible song was simple, and he relayed the words quietly. Lilly sniffled, but he felt the tenseness in her shoulders start to fall.

_“Here comes the sun, la-da-da-da,_

_Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright,_

_Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces,_

_Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here,”_

A little hand clutched the collar of his sweatshirt. Lilly gave a final sniffle but the crying ceased. The asphalt lead down, and the path ahead was crumbled and damp, and he hummed the next part as he focused on finding foothold. He held on tight and started to shimmy sideways down between broken chunks, careful and calculating. Around a bend, he saw lights and heard engines.

_“Here comes the sun, la-da-da-da,_

_Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright,_

_Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting,_

_Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear,”_

He jumped over a pothole and skip-stepped down the rest of the hill. He patted Lilly’s back and she pulled away from him to giggle, and he smiled back at her. Already, paramedics were coming towards them. He slowed his step and warned her.

“Lilly,” he said, “My friends will take good care of you. They’ll take you to see your parents and make sure you’re alright. Do you understand?”

Lilly nodded, and she was smiling. She gave Connor one last hug before a friendly paramedic came to collect her in a blanket and his jacket was returned. He saw Officers Miller and Chen half out of a patrol car, there to pick him up, and he walked towards them. They were both grinning wide.

Chen called, “We loved the show!”

“You should have seen the look on Gavin’s face,” said Miller. “He _blushed_. As in, he was _blushing_.”

 _Okay,_ from Hank’s phone, _that was really fucking cute._

Connor smiled. Mission accomplished.

_officer down._

“Ground rules,” said Detective Reed. One wrist hung over the steering wheel, and his other hand came to raise a finger. “Do not touch me. Do not look at me. Do not speak to me unless you have to. Do not _breathe_ at me.”

Connor stared ahead at the road. His eyebrows scrunched up and he failed to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Was he going to explain the breathing thing again? It wasn’t that amusing any longer.

“That may limit our ability to work together, Detective Reed. I suggest we –”

“Do not _suggest_ me things. We are going to finish the case, and then we are going to move on. _Capisce_?”

Connor broke the second rule to stare directly at Reed’s angry profile. The scar on his nose crinkled.

He parroted, with professional ease, “ _Capisce._ ”

They’d been working together for a handful of years now. _Together_ was subject to interpretation. Reed had mostly moved past his android-hating phase, but he was still chock-full of jibes and backhanded remarks. When Connor started throwing them back, Gavin Reed had actually leaned into that with a… _playful camaraderie_.

It was strange, at first, but as Connor learned Reed’s behaviors, they were functional. It was almost enjoyable, their antagonistic relationship. And after a year or two, it fostered the semblance of respect.

Frenemies, the rest of the crew said. Tina Chen sometimes sang a song he didn’t know when they really started going back and forth across the desks, _“My neme-neme, ooh, my neme-neme-nemesis…”_

Still, they had never been partnered for a case. Until now.

It was not a particularly difficult or complex case. Red ice dealing, derelict apartment, that sort of thing. The way scheduling worked out, they just happened to be paired together. Hank was still out with a bad leg. Their task this golden morning was simple: go back to the scene of the suspected crime after the initial inspection in the light of day to look for any more leads.

Easy.

“Shoulda sent Chris out here,” Reed mumbled, “ _He’s_ the rookie detective. Do you know how long I was out doing shit leads? Took me a while to crawl myself up.”

“Detective Miller was promoted for his excellent skills and his quick advancement is through his own merit. Perhaps it took you so long to _crawl your way up_ because you lacked the skillset.”

Reed barked a quick, sharp laugh. “ _Hah!_ Shut the fuck up, Robocop, I couldn’t _download_ my skillset, I had to work for it. People these days – whatever. Now, get the fuck outta my car.”

Connor hid his smirk as they pulled up to the duplex and parked.

He was already assessing the structure when he stepped out and let the door clack shut behind him. Three stories – ground floor, second, and narrow attic. It wasn’t really a duplex anymore, as the other half had been torn down long ago. The door was busted open and the windows were blown out. Only half of them were boarded up, and the others were empty eye sockets that revealed dark, open interiors. He narrowed his eyes at the placement of a dumpster below a second story window.

Reed took the lead, ducking under yellow do-not-cross tape. The splintered boards of the porch protested his weight. His eyes darted in the building and he shifted on his feet.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered. “This place gives me the creeps.”

Connor’s steps were much more careful and his eyes scanned the ground under him, the side of the house, and especially that dumpster – it had been moved just slightly, and he saw deep gouges in the earth where someone had pushed it closer to the house. Just a few inches, but enough to see.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be the type, Detective,” he said.

“Yeah, fuck off, I’ve seen enough horror movies.”

The interior of the house fared much the same as the exterior. Old smoke residue, decades baked into the peeling wallpaper, sinking pried up floors, empty rooms, trash – and minute signs of activity they had already gone over to conclude that yes, smugglers had been holed up there for quite some time.

The question was, where were they now? They’d apprehended two suspects thus far, but not the third – and the perps weren’t giving anything up.

They cleared the lower floor and found nothing. Same burnt out, bare-walled kitchen and disgusting bathroom. Connor almost sampled residue from the sink to get a rise out of Reed, but even he had his limits. Outside was clear, just as they’d left it, save for the moved dumpster.

Last night, they hadn’t been able to get upstairs because the stairs themselves were half missing and twisted as though some giant had come along and snapped them and half. They stood in front of the dangling, splintered steps and peered up into the second floor.

In the clear sunlight, Connor could find evidence that the stairs had only been recently broken – flakes and slivers of wood and old paint littered the floor, and the jagged edges lined up with blunt force, probably from that of a sledge hammer.

“The steps were only recently torn down. We should find a way to the second floor. I’ll give you a boost,” said Connor. That was two ground rules broken in one. Maybe three.

“Hell, no,” said Reed, just as predicted.

Connor took a few steps back from the stairs and preconstructed his path. One, two, three. He raced forward, pushed himself up off the wall, and grabbed the lip of the opening. He pulled himself up and took a quick glance around the landing, and then peered back down.

The smugness had left Reed’s face and was replaced with a sneer. “Okay, _Acrobat Barbie,_ let me know what you find.”

Connor laid down flat and reached out his hands.

“You are also assigned to this case, Detective. I’ll boost you up. That’s not a suggestion.”

He thought the vein in Reed’s temple was going to pop. His hard stare made no impact, though, and Connor kept his hands outstretched.

Reed turned around and left.

“Reed!” he called.

“Hold your fucking horses,” he said, from somewhere in the kitchen area. He came back with a chair and climbed it so that Connor only had to lift him ‘til he could grab the ledge for himself. He almost made a jab at the height difference. Almost. He wanted to keep their first venture – _pleasant_ , wasn’t the word exactly, nor professional, but –

Ah, _fuck it_ , as Hank would say.

“You needed the extra inches?” he asked.

“ _Fuck you!”_ he spat as he pulled himself up, and then he muttered something like “Gangly ass, big-headed ass…”

The narrow second floor was much the same. Empty rooms, sparse and broken furniture, and dirty. They were both put on edge in the uncovered territory. All was still. They strained to listen.

Connor found the room with the open window directly above the dumpster. There were scuff marks on the floor. The window had been nailed shut and had been recently disturbed – there, on the sill, unsettled dust. Fingerprints.

Bingo!

“Detective Reed,” he called.

Reed joined him. He shared the evidence. Reed stepped backwards and nodded, almost giddy, and Connor followed his thought process as he traced the path from the window back inside the house.

“Busted the stairs, opened the window, jumped out? Explains no prints outside.”

Connor considered. That had been his first possible conclusion, too, but then –

He inclined his head towards the window and Reed followed his gaze.

“The opposite, I believe. The outside of the window is damaged. The stairs were already busted when officers seized the location prior. I believe that somebody has come in this way, though nothing was disturbed downstairs.”

He could see the reconstructed figures in his mind’s eye move down below – from the asphalt street, leaping to the dumpster, sending it skidding forward just slightly, and then standing on the overflowing trash to get to the window.

“How long ago?” asked Reed.

“The dumpster was moved after the initial investigation last night early in the morning, and prior to us being here.”

Reed looked at him and a hand immediately went to his holster. “Shit,” he said.

_Shit_ , Connor thought. The perpetrator could still be there.

They heard a scuff from the attic space above them and they both whipped towards it. Gavin positioned himself towards the sound and held his gun ready to aim, moving just slightly in front of Connor. He couldn’t help but notice the clear cover, but he’d have to be thankful for it later. His own hand went to his holster, and they both stalked forward, eyes up.

The ceiling of the room they were in had the latch-door to the attic. Their sights were focused.

Reed called out, “Detroit police, come down now with your hands where we can see them!”

If his projected skin could crawl, it would have. He was hit with serious deja-vu. He remembered the sound of dozens of pigeons, the rattle of steps on flimsy attic floorboards. And then –

The person in question fell through the ceiling. Not through the attic door, no, they fell straight through the drywall and showered them with pieces of plaster and paint and insulation. And trace amounts of asbestos and mold. Connor knew. It got in his _mouth_.

The person in question was their suspect – Samuel Anders aged twenty-six – and in the split second before he charged, Connor confirmed his identity and also that he was clearly intoxicated by red ice. He landed nearly directly on top of Reed and the gun skittered across the floor. Reed was quick to stand but was unsteady, and the man was raising something dark – a pipe, or a maybe even a gun – and was baring it down, impervious to the shock of the fall, blasted to hell as he was.

Connor didn’t have time to raise his service weapon and make a clean shot. He only had one clear path, and he took it. He didn’t even think. The risk for Reed’s injury was a chaotic variable that he needed to prevent at all costs.

He lunged forward and grabbed Reed from the man’s path – picking him up around the middle, and then grabbing him by the collar. When he tossed him through the window, it was such a clean arc he could almost see it in slow motion, hear classical music playing from the heavens –

The look of shock, realization, and disbelief on Reed’s face was more potent than anything he’d seen in his life. All stages of grief within the span of a few seconds. And then he was gone, free-falling to the dumpster below.

Connor spun in the same move and clubbed the man in the side of the neck, dodged the downward jab aimed at his shoulder, knocked him off his feet, and had his hands cuffed behind his back. All before he heard Gavin yell from outside:

“Connor, you _motherfucker!_ ”

When he knew the man was secure – groaning against the floor – he went to peer outside the window.

“I’ve apprehended the suspect, Detective Reed.”

Reed was struggling to get purchase in the wet trash. He teeth were bared and angry and he sounded like a feral dog. When he managed to sit on the lip of the metal, he looked up and said, “I swear to god I’d come up there right fucking now and fucking _kill you,_ if I could.”

“Why can’t you come up here now?” he asked, “Is it perhaps that you cannot reach the windowsill?”

Connor ducked his head back and winced when Reed gave a stupendous leap and grab at the sill, slicing the air just a hair’s width away from his nose.

Later, when all was said and done and Connor was back in Reed’s passenger seat and Reed was staring ahead through the windshield without making a move to start the car, he asked, “Too far?”

Reed turned his head. All expression was drained from his face. Garbage juice dripped down his temple. He said nothing. Fifteen seconds of hard eye contact passed. It was somehow far worse than any insult, any promise of violence. Connor broke his gaze and shrunk down on himself minutely, staring ahead with wide eyes.

“You tossed me like I was a bag of fucking laundry.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth tugged up. His eyes drifted slowly back to Reed’s – still stone-dead.

“It was kinda fucking funny. I’ll kill you!” he raised a pointed finger, “But it was pretty fucking funny. The only reason you’re not dead yet is ‘cause you saved my life.”

And he _laughed_. Detective Reed _laughed_. Before Connor could process that, the laughter stopped as though cut with an axe and Reed looked at him with venom and a jabbing finger.

“And if word gets out about this, I swear to fucking god you’re gonna look like a toaster on the train tracks when I’m done with you.”

Connor looked ahead through the windshield and said nothing. He folded his hands neatly in his lap. He had already distributed the events of the trip to evidence…To Hank, and Chen, and Miller to examine for him…and, perhaps, to the whole team.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

_beach day._

Connor stood sentinel under the wide umbrella. Warm breeze filtered under it and around them. It was pleasant and calm, and so much different than anything he’d experienced before. Hank flipped out a foldable chair in a single motion and set it in the sand, and he leaned down into it with a deep, contented sigh.

The ocean seemed to stretch forever, and too the white sand curling with it. It was bright and saturated and so open – compared to the cluster of the city, it was almost intimidating. But it was beautiful, and he let it soak in for a long time. The sand between his toes was gritty and hot and he dug himself down into it, and he stood behind Hank and watched the others chase after each other or go immediately to the water.

They were all in their swimsuits: Markus, Josh, Simon, North, and then a little ways from them, Kara and her family – Luther and Alice, settling into the sand while the little girl ran down to the water squealing. Hank and himself were not strictly water-ready, Hank wearing shorts and a rather garish Hawaiian shirt, and Connor in shorts and a striped tank.

He could hear North’s voice above all others, her tone serious command but punctuated with laughter as she dictated who was going to play against who in their tiny volleyball match.

She called to him, “You wanna play on their team, Con? Three against one is unfair! These guys don’t stand a chance against me.”

Connor shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to hold you back.”

She laughed in response but accepted his answer and went back to dictating the rules.

Connor was content to watch. Hank pulled out a worn novel. There were seabirds – gulls flying above them, and then little plovers darting across the sand farther up the beach. The sand itself was more than just sand, but shells and bits of smooth glass and grains of varying size and colour and scraps of plant life. He crouched down to get a better look and started analyzing. He could spend all day analyzing, and that is what he intended to do.

Hank lifted his sunglasses to sit on his head and looked over to where he crouched.

“Aren’t you gonna go play with your friends?”

Connor crunched a pinch of sand between his fingers and counted the microscopic shells he could find.

“I was not planning on it.”

Hank stared for a moment, expression flat and unimpressed. “Mm-hmm.”

The others seemed to be having a well enough time. More than just well enough – but excited and natural and very rowdy. The Jericho-crew was rowdy, anyhow, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to try to sneak into Kara’s family. Alice was building a mermaid tail out of sand over Luther’s legs while Kara decorated with shells.

No, they all seemed to have their own routines going on, and he was content with that. Plus the idea of leaving the shade of the umbrella was unappetizing.

Connor saw Hank fold his book and set it in his lap, and then raise a hand to cone around his mouth. He shouted, “Hey! Would you come pull the stick out of Connor’s ass? He’s starting to piss me off.”

Connor stood and stared down at Hank which what he hoped was a very piercing glare, but the man was already turning back to his paperback.

A motion was detected in his periphery and a warning lit in his HUD. He looked back out at the others on the sand – North was grinning like a wolf, and Josh was slung into Simon’s side as he choked on his own laughter.

Markus had stalked towards him and was squaring up football-tackle style, and his mismatch eyes were _lasers_.

“Markus,” said Connor. He felt pinned down as though by a lance. “I am asking you nicely to –”

Markus _launched_ himself and Connor’s mouth pulled in terror, but he didn’t have time to call out further. Sand kicked up from behind his heels and Connor could not dodge the affront. He took a few steps back but was grabbed firmly and thrown into the air, and then pulled back down hard against Markus’ shoulder, caught in his arms.

He knew it wouldn’t do any good, but he slapped closed fists on Markus’ back anyway and said, “Markus! Put me down.”

Markus turned around with him and walked towards the water casually as though he were carrying luggage. He could see Hank bent over wheezing so hard no sound came out, and he heard the others giggling. He even saw little Alice roll back in the sand while her parents tried to cover their grins.

“Markus, do _not_ throw me into the water,” he said. He poured every ounce of steel he had into his voice, pulling straight from his interrogator program.

“I will not throw you into the water,” said Markus. Connor knew he was telling the truth – but not _all_ of the truth, and it made him squint his eyes even though Markus wouldn’t be able to catch the accusatory expression.

Connor heard the water coming up closer and saw waves reach forward and tug around Markus’ ankles with silvery ripples. And then in one quick motion, Connor was tossed up from where he was lodged disgracefully and pulled back into Markus’ arms bridal style.

“I’m gonna throw both of us into the water,” he said.

Before Connor could even choose whether protesting was a viable option, Markus launched himself again and they were both plunged into green-blue water with a _splash!_

As they were thrown, Markus did not let go of him, though they were untangled. Markus found his hands and Connor his, and they held on tight. Markus engaged in the barest of interfacing just to send the feeling of a bright smile. Connor sent back honesty: fear – at the water – bemusement, but also giddy excitement and a plea for Markus to stay close.

He had no trouble abiding that. Their hands were still locked firmly. Connor had never been fully submerged in water before, and though he knew he was both capable of swimming and incapable of drowning, it was a vast unknown and the water was big. It was also very clear, like tinted glass, and he could see white sand and little fish around them where they floated a few feet above the floor.

Still, he let out a laugh. Markus treaded water easy, and his smile was wide. It made his eyes crinkle, something so genuine and interesting that Connor was instantly more thankful to be there than back counting shells – here, with the sun glittering, Markus _laughing_.

“Do you trust me?” asked Markus.

While it didn’t show in his vision, Connor felt like a _processing…_ icon, distracted by this – by _this_.

“Of course,” he answered. _If I didn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten three steps towards me. Probably._

Markus fell beneath the water. He didn’t tug hard, but his hands guided Connor below, and after a moment, Connor followed.

They sank down together. The weightlessness was – foreign, and pleasant, and the pressure of the water and its coolness and its clear, marbled-green filtering made everything glow faintly – and it sent ripples of golden light down below on the sand, and around Markus’ shoulders and arms and face like liquid sun.

He was still grinning, Markus – but it had softened around the edges to melt from cheeky to serene, and something else he didn’t know what exactly to call. Fondness, perhaps, the way his gaze was so locked onto his own. They floated back slowly into deeper water.

Connor pulled Markus’ hands so that the distance between them shortened. A skate darted beneath them. A school of tiny silver fish swam under their near-touching legs. Above them, the surface of the water undulated and he was reminded of a cathedral’s stained-glass. The muffled sounds made it all the more otherworldly.

And while Connor was looking around, identifying all he could, the distance between them closed still. His eyes found Markus’ again and he realized Markus had not once looked away.

Connor leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the other’s and let his eyes fall shut. He established a trickling connection and said, _It’s beautiful here._

Markus sent back an agreement and a soft stream of happiness and – love.

They stayed like that for a long while, suspended in time, and they stayed connected – not thinking, really, not analyzing, but just _feeling_. Just being.

He was snapped out of his lull by a sudden direct message.

_U good?_ sent from Hank’s phone.

_Yes,_ he sent back.

He pulled back a tad just to give Markus a direct look. He’d seen the message, too, and he smiled again.

 _We should probably head back soon_ , he said.

Neither of them made a move to the surface, but Connor leaned back towards the shore and lazily pulled Markus with him, and they kicked their legs half-heartedly. They drifted all the way back to shore like that, until it was shallow enough that they could stand, if they wanted to.

Still, they stayed underwater. Connor understood why so many people flocked to the beach now, why so many humans in particular were so obsessed with the ocean.

Before they breached the surface, Markus took Connor’s hands (still locked together; not once had they parted) and brought them to his own chest, and he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Connor had known it was coming. He was given ample warning, through their connection, and had been eager to consent. He leaned forward and kissed Markus directly, quick and simple, and they both smiled wide.

He wondered how many people would kill for an underwater first kiss.

Maybe it was the excitement, or maybe it was revenge, but something playful urged Connor to dig his heels into the sand below and push himself forward. He grabbed Markus around the middle and hoisted him up, and they broke the surface with a splash – and then immediately, Connor tipped back so that they both fell back together.

Markus asked through their connection, _What was that for?_

Connor answered, _You looked like you needed a pick-me-up._

When the rhythmic waves carried them back to shore, they were laughing and tangled in the sand, nonsensical and ecstatic.


End file.
